


Still Alive (But Barely Breathing)

by HallsofStone2941



Series: Crazy Life [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholic!Thorin, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dwalin's not good at handling people, Homeless!Thorin, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Multi, Not Beta Read, Older Brother!Dwalin, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective!Dwalin, Swearing, bad language, except when it comes to Belle, fem!Bilbo, mentions of mentions of suicidal thoughts, ptsd!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1865190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now, you can do this any time you want. I don't care if you come here, piss-poor drunk and vomiting, or looking for a fight. If you're angry at anything or everything, you come here. We'll throw as many punches as you can handle. Anytime you're looking to shout at something, you come here and I'll match you word for word. But don't you ever, and I repeat, EVER, take the shit that has become your life out on Belle. She's had enough to deal with without you coming in and fucking her up more." He yanks on Thorin's arm to emphasize his point, making Thorin grunt with pain. "Kapiche?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Alive (But Barely Breathing)

"Dis," Dwalin greets.

It is only just in the past two years, after nearly two decades of silence, that the scattered pieces of their family are starting to get in touch. He has spoken to Gloin recently, hearing about his son named Gimli, and received a call from Dain (God knows how the man got his number). Even Thorin has decided to start visiting, though those meetings are not as pleasant as the others. Two months ago, Dwalin had tentatively picked up the phone and dialed the number that Thorin, who had kept silent tabs on his younger sister, gave him. The conversation they had at the time, though short, had opened the doorway for future communication. This time, Dis calls him.

"Hey," Dis says, sounding distracted. There is a rustling sound as she covers the receiver, and Dwalin grabs some bread from the store shelf while he hears her shout at Kili, her trouble-making younger son. "Sorry about that," she says when she comes back on the phone. "I actually had a question for you." Dwalin hums to let her know that he is listening, debating the benefit of buying the more expensive, free-range chicken breasts while the cheaper version tastes so much worse.

"Gloin said that he saw Thorin recently. Have you seen him?" Now, there is a tricky question, with an even trickier answer.

"Yeah, he's stopped by a couple times in the past year. Belle found him at a soup kitchen and dragged him home, and he's sorta stuck around the neighborhood since then. He's not exactly...it's probably for the best if he hasn't contacted you. He looks like shit. Acts like shit, too."

"That's what Gloin said," Dis replies, falling silent for a long moment. Dwalin waits, somewhat apprehensively, while he scans his items in the self check-out. Dis' silences, he has learned, became very dangerous after Fili was born. Her husband, Kilan, informed Dwalin, during the last phone call, that her motto is "tough love mothering", and it applies to everyone.

"Alright," she says finally, sounding tired and, almost inaudibly, upset. "Just...keep an eye on him? When you can, I...I know he's hard to keep track of. It'd be nice if he could just get his act together, meet the boys." Dwalin assures her that he will do what he can, thinking to himself that it might as well be an empty promise, for all that he knows about Thorin. They chat a little longer as he drives home, Dis telling him about Fili's junior year in college and Kili's sophomore year in high school. In the beginning, before the shit hit the fan, they never really got along, and after twenty-one years of silence, the conversation does not last long before it runs dry, and they hang up.

Dwalin is just getting out of his car, the vehicle loaded with groceries, when he hears a loud, male voice yelling something inaudible at Belle's house. He is across the lawn and yanking Belle's door open before the action registers, his anger only intensifying when he realizes it is Thorin shouting at her. Without a word, Dwalin thunders into the living room, where Belle is leaning away from Thorin by the couch, while the larger man's voice makes her cringe with every syllable. Her eyes flicker to Dwalin with unmistakable relief as he grabs Thorin by the shirt, and drags him out of the house and across the lawns before throwing him into his own home. Thorin stops shouting as soon as Dwalin grabs him, and starts fighting against the biker, but Dwalin never loses his grip.

Once inside, Dwalin barely has time to lock the door before he feels arms wrap around him in a vice grip. Dwalin struggles against Thorin, but the other man, hung over, unbalanced, and uncoordinated, is in no shape to hold him for long. As soon as he is free, Dwalin swings at Thorin, catching him upside the head. Thorin stumbles backward before throwing himself at Dwalin again, the previous blow to the head making him even clumsier. Dwalin catches the fist aimed at his head easily and once again throws his unsteady cousin away from him. Still Thorin comes, again and again, until Dwalin has enough. He grabs Thorin's left jab, twists his arm behind his back, and forces him down until the other man is lying on his stomach with Dwalin straddling him. Keeping Thorin's arm in a tight grip, Dwalin leans down to hiss in his ear.

"Now, you can do this any time you want. I don't care if you come here, piss-poor drunk and vomiting, or looking for a fight. If you're angry at anything or everything, you come here. We'll throw as many punches as you an handle. Anytime you're looking to shout at something, you come here and I'll match you word for word. But don't you _ever_ , and I repeat, EVER, take the shit that has become your life out on Belle. She's had enough to deal with without you coming in and fucking her up more." He yanks on Thorin's arm to emphasize his point, making Thorin grunt with pain. "Kapiche?"

Thorin snarls, fighting Dwalin's grip rather than giving an answer. All of a sudden, though, he slumps, forehead falling against the carpet and messy, knotted black mane following suit. All tension leaves his body, and Dwalin knows the fight is over. He waits until Thorin nods before getting off him and dragging him up by the armpits to deposit him on the couch. Thorin is limp, shoulders slumped down and hands resting where they fell in his lap. His head hangs, eyes staring at the coffee table: the picture of someone who has given up, as if a minute ago he had not frightened the life out of a poor woman.

Remembering Belle, Dwalin decides he should make sure she is not shaken up too badly. Just as he is about to leave, Thorin speaks, his voice quiet and dejected and full of self-loathing.

"I'm sorry, Dwalin. You're," a big sigh, "you're right, I shouldn't have done that. I just—I don't know what came over me. I never do. I'm shit at—at saying things, using words. Fuck, I didn't mean to...Shit, she was so frightened. God, fuck, Dwalin, I'm so sorry. Tell her I'm so sorry, please, will you? I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know what to do." Large, blue eyes, once so beautiful but now bloodshot and dull, turn to look at the biker. He looks so... _pitiful_ , as if he had long ago given up any chance of being anything more than the washed-up shadow of the great man he should have been. On any other person, Dwalin would think that look is an act, a plea for help. He hates those people. With Thorin, though, he knows the man truly thinks that: that he has used all his chances and will spend the rest of his life messed up, worthless, and hating himself for what he did not become. Thorin is not the only one bad with words, however - some would say Dwalin is even worse. The only one that can draw out his soft side is Belle, and Thorin is a far cry from Dwalin's surrogate sister. Oh, Thorin needs words, too, but it goes against Dwalin's instincts to coddle men, particularly his hard-headed cousin. Instead, he grunts and says gruffly:

"Do I look like your therapist? Shit, Thorin, talk to Balin, he's better with this than I am. I'm going to see Belle; don't do anything stupid. Actually, you could unload the groceries from the car, make yourself useful." No, even Dwalin knows that is not the right thing to say, but any attempts to fix it will make it worse. Besides, giving Thorin something to do is the best way to ensure he does not wallow in self-pity - or worse, start looking for the razors (Dwalin keeps them in a locked cabinet at all times in case Thorin decides it is time for an impromptu visit).

Dwalin walks out of the front door and makes the trip to Belle's at a much more sedate pace than his last, brief visit. The front door is still open from when Dwalin pulled Thorin out, which worries him; it means Belle is too shaken to close it. He steps through and shuts it behind him, then goes to the living room. Belle has moved from where she was standing to sit on the couch, which is good, but she does not look up from staring at the base moulding on the wall when he walks toward her, which is bad. He grabs the knit couch blanket (Belle once tried to explain its purpose to him, but it never really made sense) and wraps it around her shoulders, tucking it in firmly to keep her warm. She looks up then, smiling at him in that way that means she is trying to say she is alright when it is obvious she is not. He strokes the top of her head, tucking a curl behind her ear, and moves to the kitchen.

The water in the kettle had long ago turned lukewarm, so Dwalin turns the heat back on and hunts through her cupboards. Chamomile tea, he remembers, has worked wonders to calm her nerves since the early days of elementary school. He has never had much taste for the stuff, but often allowed her to force it on him when she was young so that she would remain happy. With the water heated, he grabs a large mug from the cupboard and pours water in, adding the bag - four minutes, no more, no less, and a dash of milk - before bringing the steaming beverage to the couch. He retrieves the mug sleeve from the coffee table and slips it on, knowing that her soft hands are more sensitive than his own calloused ones. Finally, he hands his masterpiece to her, all the while watching her face, and is rewarded with a smile a touch more genuine than the previous one.

Settling back on the couch, he carefully puts an arm around her and draws her close, making sure not to jostle her and spill the hot tea. She leans into him, practically curling against his side as she holds her drink and takes an occasional sip. Several minutes pass in silence, with him gently rubbing her shoulder. Eventually she sits up slightly, though not enough to dislodge his arm. "You forgot the whiskey," she jokes quietly, her voice soft and close to shaky as she raises her mug to indicate her meaning.

"I already have to deal with one alcoholic, I don't need to deal with two," he replies, wincing as soon as the words (the wrong ones, always the wrong ones) leave his mouth. To his immense relief, though, she chuckles softly.

"I don't think he drinks as much as he'd like you to believe. I think it's just an excuse to get into fights." That was Belle, always trying to find the best in everyone; even after all she had been through. Dwalin cannot quite contain his snort, though he tones it down for the sake of her nerves.

"I can't believe you're making excuses for him," he grumbles.

"Oh, I'm not, believe me." Her voice is stronger, as is the laugh that accompanies her words. Dwalin sends a quick thanks to whichever diety is watching that she can recover so fast. "He still has a lot to make up for. I just think it's easier for him to act the way he does if he lets others - and himself - believe it's the result of a lapse in judgment caused by excessive intake of alcohol. He still drinks enough to live in the ocean, just not at the bottom of the Mariana Trench." She is always making analogies - some make sense to Dwalin, others, like this one, require clarification.

"I don't think the fish at the bottom of the sea drink more than the fish near the top," he reasons, frowning in confusion.

"Shut up and let me drink my tea," Belle grumbles, which means that he is, for once, right. He contemplates asking The Question - sometimes it is okay, and sometimes, not so much - and decides that he needs to know.

"Belle," he says, voice grave as he turns to look directly at her, "are you alright?"

She remains quiet for a few seconds, staring into space. "I think...I think I will be. I'm a bit shaken up, but in a few hours, I'll be okay."

"He says he's sorry, for whatever that's worth," Dwalin adds, knowing that, at the moment, mentioning his name will cause her more harm.

"I'm sure he is. He doesn't—I know he doesn't do it on purpose, Dwalin. He, just, really needs someone to _listen_ \- not some stupid-ass therapist, you don't trust someone you're paying to hear your problems. He needs a friend, just one, really good friend that can listen to him sort out his problems. I wish I could be that, Dwalin - I want to help him, but every time he shouts it's—it's Azog all over again, and all I can think about is—" She cuts off here, hand creeping up to her throat, and Dwalin squeezes her to his side a little tighter. She shakes her head slowly, fingers lightly rubbing her throat. "If he can...learn to control his anger - or just his voice, his volume, then I might not...I don't want to say it, but...I might not...fear for my life every time I'm in the room with him. I want to—" she puts her hand on Dwalin's arm, because he has started to rise and is staring at her with complete shock and a small amount of exasperation—"no, Dwalin, I want to help him. He _needs_ help - where is he going to get it? He doesn't trust anyone, except you and Balin, but you don't..." she slumps back into the couch.

"He thinks he's worthless and beyond help - I _know that feeling_ , Dwalin. Balin's at work most of the time, and you prefer to settle things with your fists. You have no patience. He needs to have someone sit and listen, and _understand_. I can do that, you know I can. I just need him to calm down first. To not act like I'm here to hurt him or insult him." She has a frown on, as if Thorin is a puzzle, or a lock that she needs to find the right key for. Dwalin sighs.

"I know it's your instinct to help people, Belle, especially people you can relate to. But it's not good for you, putting yourself in these kinds of situations - it's not helping _you_ , Bells, and right now, just for once, I wish you'd take care of yourself," he tells her gently. Air exits slowly through her nose: a tired, resigned sigh that seems to take the spirit out of her body. She places the empty, cooling mug on the coffee table and leans back into Dwalin, pulling her knees up and half-sitting on him with her head against his chest.

"I know. I just wish I could do something. I wish I could stand up straight and talk him out of his anger, rather than running like a coward. I wish," her voice is broken now, and he can feel her tears through his T-shirt, "I wish I didn't feel so helpless."

She stays there, hiding from the world in the safety of Dwalin's arms. Eventually her breathing evens out. Dwalin gently repositions her to lie down on the couch - she is small enough to sleep anywhere - and rewraps the blanket around her, making sure her ever-cold feet are adequately covered. As he gets up to leave, he flicks the switch on one of the hidden baby monitors positioned around the house. If she awakens and panics, he or Balin will know to go and comfort her.

He leaves the mug on the coffee table, know that having something to do when she wakes will help calm her nerves. He checks all the doors in the house to make sure they are properly bolted before stepping out quietly and turning his own key in her lock.

When he gets back to his house, Thorin is nowhere to be found. The fridge, however, is full of just-purchased perishables, meticulously stored and stacked, military-style, and the pantry, filled with the non-perishables, looks the same way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to God, getting a plot bunny for a long story when you're already editing a long story is like riding a train with a destination you really need to get to, then your body decides to jump on another train going in an entirely different direction like, "hello, no, we're going this way now", and your conscious brain is just like, wtf? Then you sit and sulk, and sit and sulk, but you see where the ending is and you really like it so you start writing a whole new story. So here is the beginning of an idea that won't go away, as well as related ideas that sort of come out of no where without any concern for chronological order or happy thoughts. The series will have a happy ending, though, I promise.
> 
> Soundtrack for this oneshot:  
> 1) Battle Scars by Guy Sebastian featuring Lupe Fiasco  
> 2) Demons by Imagine Dragons  
> 3) Breakeven by The Script  
> 4) Another Lullaby by Art Garfunkel


End file.
